


The Giaour

by dozmuffinxc



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, M/M, Vampire Sherlock, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-11
Updated: 2014-11-11
Packaged: 2018-02-24 22:53:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2599499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dozmuffinxc/pseuds/dozmuffinxc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Death itself will not keep John Watson from Sherlock Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Giaour

**Author's Note:**

  * For [musicalfanforever](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=musicalfanforever).



> Written for musicalfanforever, titled after the Byron poem of the same name, and inspired by the art of reapersun. This fandom, I swear! :)

John Watson was dead. Or rather, he would be, and very soon. But really, when you have nothing to live for, are you really alive?

Mycroft had told him to stay away. Threatened him, actually. As if that was ever going to be effective.

_“He isn’t Sherlock anymore, John,” Mycroft had said._

_“Hasn’t stopped you from seeing him,” John had said, daring him to deny it._

_“Yes, well, he is my brother.”_

_“Yeah, well, and he’s my…”_

Mycroft had laughed at that, a hollow laugh that sent shivers down John’s spine.

_“Whatever you and he may or may not have been,” Mycroft had said, “is irrelevant now. He is lost to you. Quite lost. And if you persist in seeking him out, you will end up on one of Miss Hooper’s examination tables.”_

John had thrown himself from the black car, bile in his throat and white sparks dancing across his vision, and he’d paced the streets of London for hours.

It was no use. Life had been empty before Sherlock, and now that he was… well, words just didn’t exist in John Watson’s vocabulary for what Sherlock had become when he had disappeared from the morgue after leaping to his supposed-death from the roof of St. Bart’s. As he drew closer to the underpass that would bring him to Sherlock’s last, unchecked bolt-hole, John allowed himself one moment of doubt, one frisson of unchecked fear before steeling himself with the strength of his conviction.

_Wherever you go, I go, Sherlock._

The streets of Wapping were silent at this hour, and there were no security guards to keep John out of the abandoned warehouse of Froggit and Froggit. He didn’t try to silence the sound of his footsteps, and for once, he didn’t think that the prickling feeling on the back of his neck – the feeling of being constantly watched - was paranoia.

“John.”

For one wild moment, John’s face broke into a manic grin as he spun around to face the shadow that had spoken his name. He had waited for so long to hear that voice again, and now here it was, and everything was going to be all right.

“John,” the shadow repeated.

This time, the voice was deeper, huskier, as it lingered on the sound of each letter as though tasting the individual modulations and finding in each something to savor. John knew that voice – would know it anywhere – but it was different, too. Hungry, in a way that made John take an involuntary step back. This was all the invitation the shadow needed.

Before he could draw in enough air to gasp, John had been thrown against the far wall by the force of the other man’s body. He could feel ribs cracking and he knew by the warmth dripping down the back of his neck that he was bleeding. The shadow knew it, too. The shadow---

No. Not a shadow. _Sherlock._

Sherlock had always been stronger than he’d looked, surprising John with his knowledge of baritsu and terrifying Mrs. Hudson when he was in a rage and managed to throw the coffee table across the flat. That strength had been transformed into something primal now; there was steel in the arm that pinned John to the wall, iron in the fingers that pressed against his throat like a vice. Revulsion and pleasure warred unexpectedly in his chest as Sherlock pressed his face roughly into John’s neck, cold lips seeking the carotid artery just beneath the surface. Everything in John screamed at him to resist, to fight back, but that wasn’t what he had come here to do. Setting instinct aside, John relaxed and tilted his head to the side to make the task easier still. Sherlock must have felt the surrender, for the vice-like grip on John’s neck eased enough to allow him to breathe comfortably, and the arm pinning him against the rough cement shifted. John could almost feel the edges of Sherlock’s mouth curve into a smile as he pressed his lips against John’s neck, testing the flesh before sinking elongated canines deep into the muscles and veins pulsing beneath the surface.

 _Eight minutes,_ John thought. _It takes about eight minutes to bleed out from your carotid artery. Maybe less. Who knew what exceptions were applicable in this case? What a fascinating study this would make, if only he had his medical texts and maybe a spare pen and perhaps if he asked nicely Sherlock would let him borrow one of those notepads he seems to hoard in that coat of his…_

Just as he was slipping out of consciousness, John felt something warm and wet pressed to his lips. It took a great deal of effort to force his eyes to open wide enough to see that it was a hand – Sherlock’s hand – with the wrist bared and bloody. He tried to shake his head, to indicate that he didn’t understand, but the world had grown fuzzy and incomprehensible and all he managed was a faint gurgle.

 _Drink,_ a voice purred somewhere in the back of his mind. It was that voice that had picked him apart on the day of their first meeting, that had called to him over the thrum of London traffic to _hurry up, John,_ and that voice that had bid him good-bye through the speaker of his mobile before it had been silenced forever. He would follow that voice to the ends of the earth.

So John drank.


End file.
